I couldn’t resist having a proper look-see at a newish house just a stone’s throw from Bible College campus. It’s your standard three bed, three bath McMansionvilla. The South loves itself a “bonus room,” and every realtor must play an infomercial host, “Oooh, but there’s more!” and they toss in this whole extra parlor like it’s a potholder and I’m supposed to throw my panties in the air, “Yip! Yip! Yaw! Too good to be true!” Trust, the home I was looking at is really a four bed cookie cutter deal.
I set up an appointment for a private viewing of the house.
And by that I mean I asked expressly for trouble.
As I approached the cul-de-sac wherein my prospect sat, I got all nervous nelly about meeting the realtor Miss Laverne. I had corresponded with Miss Laverne, who mercifully appreciates the technology of text messaging, in lieu of speaking telephonically (gasp, perish the thought) or e-mailing from her AOL account which is totally acceptable practice in Confederate commerce. I believe phonebooks are even used here for purposes other than boosting up small children to the dinner table (?).
I was wearing my crusty gym clothes. I was also wearing a helmet--which, by the way is adorbs with a ladybug print--because I was driving our motorscooter. We had just gotten it fixed (the scooter) and one of the quirky handlebars that has the power to accelerate was, turns out, no longer quirky.
You know that part in your nightmare when you can’t hit the brakes? It’s awful something fierce, isn’t it?
Oh.
I.
Broke.
Oh.
I.
Oh.
That.
Happened.
The garage door was completely busted inward. And the crash was not a silent one. Ha.
Miss Laverne came out and I wasn’t sure if I should turn on the waterworks or if I should just pretend like I was not the same person who had come for the private viewing at 10 a.m. Nope! Hehe! I’m just the person who promptly at 10 a.m. crashed her motorino into the garage door of strangers who are trying to sell their house.
In the end I decided to cry but I was so sweaty and shocked that my tear ducts were paralyzed.
Miss Laverne was so kind, though, and, honestly, a good two minutes of me making the ugly face trying to cry was enough for her to ask me if I wanted to check out the rest of the house. I was unhurt as was the bike so we stood the bike and myself up and we went all HGTV on that place.
The rest of the house was really gorge. Bright and palatial, but like I said, I was still quite stricken by the accident. It sort of felt a little insincere to remark on the lovely tray ceilings when I had just effectively disassembled one of the major egresses of the home.
So, this must be a sign, right? That I'm meant to own property in both hemispheres. The North and the South. Think the installment plan is the ticket. Gonna lock down the garage first, work my way up to the kitchen, put the half-bath on layaway. Lock it up by end of fiscal year.
I spoke with Miss Laverne later in the day about our options, in terms of repairing the garage or just waiting to put an offer in on the house wherein, apres an official inspection, we would ask the owners to repair the unsightly garage door before we bought it.
Miss Laverne might have even asked God to bless my heart for cracking a joke like that;I knew I was dealing with a true Southern belle.
I then asked God to bless her heart. No, I didn’t really, but I wonder what she would have said to that. Bless your heart. No. Bless YOURS.
The above described incident occurred some months ago and all damages have been paid for and repaired. Except the damage to my ego :)
